


lustrum

by catchpenny



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:24:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catchpenny/pseuds/catchpenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You are <i>such</i> a slut,” Grantaire pants, with two fingers crooked inside me and his breath hot on the back of my neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lustrum

“You are _such_ a slut,” Grantaire pants, with two fingers crooked inside me and his breath hot on the back of my neck. 

I should want to strike him. When he talks back to me ordinarily, outside of this so-intimate context, I loathe him. He laughs in my face and treads everything I care about underfoot. How I feel about him then is a simple and uncomplicated thing.

His fingers twist; I shudder. I make such terrible noises when Grantaire does these things to me. I can't dislike him while he is doing them. “ _Damn_ you,” I say. Then I turn my head to bite the hand not tormenting me as though it is the hand which offends, and it's his turn to groan. 

“You will kill me,” he says roughly. “If I come before I get my cock in you–”

I relish being able to put that tone into his voice, even when he has me pushed against the wall with my trousers down. He's no more decent himself. He keeps pausing in his preparations to rub against my back, hard and leaking already. If we are caught, there's no excuse I can offer that will excuse it. There's nothing this could be than what it is. We've been pushing it further each time; too long, and too far. I keep telling myself that it's a fever which must break soon, a madness that will lift. Meanwhile I burn, I am mad.

“Then put it in me,” I say. It's an order. It makes Grantaire make the most plaintive noise, low in his throat, and he grinds himself more urgently against me.

“Presently–”

“Now. Stop dallying. Someone will come searching.”

“And find you bent to take it,” he says, with brutal delight. He pulls his fingers out of me and leaves a yearning blank. “Find you arranged like some _whore_ in some back alleyway–”

He stops speaking at the same time I stop listening; when his cock finally, at last, after such drawn-out denial, pierces forward. Thrusts into my guts like a sword. It burns, but I don't want Grantaire to know that. He already tries to take too much time, too much ease – too many liberties. Instead I press my forehead against the wall, clench my jaw, and take it. Later the grit of rough plaster will be indented there like the red brand of shame it is.

Grantaire resumes our conversation. 

“Slut,” he repeats, even as he reaches forward, with the same hand that worked me open, to find my cock. I shudder again when he wraps it around the shaft, firm and practiced and knowing. I find a filthy pleasure in knowing that it's his spit that makes it slide so sweetly. Makes his cock slide so sweetly, too. Worked between them, I throb in the curl of his fist.

“Harlot,” he pants, and I feel his lips against the nape of my neck. They shape a kiss, and then another, to the left of the spine. “Virgo-Virago. Roland of the unbreakable sword - call me Ferracutus and spear me through. You _will_ kill me.”

No one else has ever insulted me in such caressing accents. If the words fell on my ears like a new tongue of Babylon, with all their sense lost, I might think that Grantaire was whispering love-nonsense instead of coarseness. I _want_ coarseness. I want to be roughly taken and used without mercy, on my command, and to the exact degree which I stipulate. It is a great lustration that lets me expunge every speck of filth and dirt at once, a reservoir I can fill to brimming and seal closed, leaving myself clean. I am never more virtuous or more clear-minded than directly after I have had Grantaire, or after he has had me. 

I don't want love.

“Shut up,” I say. “Harder.”


End file.
